


The Sound of Blue

by Zara_Zara



Series: Sound of You and Me [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: AU - alternate universe, Blake is a sunchild, Descriptions of war, Flirty Blake, Friendship, Happy Ending, I'm indulging myself, M/M, Music, Non-fatal Injury, Painting, Pre-War, War, William has a sister, and a good storyteller, oblivious Schofield, painter!Will, pianist!Tom, they both live, they meet before the war, what can I say? I’m a sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:07:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22826104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zara_Zara/pseuds/Zara_Zara
Summary: William stays with his sister for the better part of the summer and spends most of his time painting. The last thing he expected to do was make an unexpected friend.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: Sound of You and Me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674967
Comments: 42
Kudos: 150





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Took a break from a WIP to write this. I didn't edit much so I'm sorry for any mistakes.

Will Schofield sat in his sister’s small guest bedroom with a blank canvas in front of him. At his foot, was a worn carrier filled with oil paints and brushes. He stared out the window of the guest bedroom and simply listened to the early morning bird song of the approaching new day. 

Soon, the house would be alive with the noises of children’s laughing feet, the clatter of the kitchen’s pots and pans, and the rise and fall of his sister’s voice. 

Before all that should occur, Will simply wanted to paint. 

Will Schofield had always had an affinity for painting. He had a particular bias towards the color blue. Specifically, cerulean blue. 

To the outside observer, painting is a quiet exercise. It is a purely individualistic activity for the person doing it. However, Will knows better. Painting is not a quiet exercise at all. The colors have noises to them. When he mixes red with white to make the velvety shade of pink of a rose, he can hear the soft pitter patter of rain fall. Yellow and green are the sounds of the very highest notes on a piano, tinkling soft and bright like starlight. 

Blue is a whole other matter entirely. There are so many shades of beautiful blues. Blue for the sky, for the ocean, blue for a cloud's underside, blue for a blue flower and blue for the blue birds. Blue has its own soft music---he has never been able to pin down what exactly it is. All he knows is that it's the color of companionship, of life and of love. 

His mother was a painter. A talented one too. She could capture any scene she wanted from any place and moment in time. It was like magic. William could practically see her reaching up into the sky, where all the imagination is, and pull down whatever she wanted to capture with her colors. As a child, Will would often delight in watching her paint. His mother, Elizabeth, would pull up a little stool for him to sit on so he could watch her at work. He would watch, in rapt attention, as she’d mix the colors on her palette without a second thought, seemingly innately knowing what color she wanted. She’d get paint on her hands. The colors would appear on her hands like flower petals and sometimes she’d brush her hair aside and streak some on her forehead like a shooting star. Will remembers his mother bending down a cheek towards him so he could try and wipe it away for her before father returned home.

He’d never grown tired of sitting on that little stool. His older sister would tell him she used to do the same thing too when she was younger. She too recognized the magic their mother created and on occasion she would sit with him on the ground and watch their mother create crashing waves on a rocky shore. But before she could watch the moment when their mother added the right shade of violet to the sky, she would move away and study piano. Will never really minded when his sister, Mary, would go practice piano because it meant that the house would fill up with the sounds of music _and_ colors. Although, at that time, his sister was only just beginning to learn the piano and only played the very basics of songs. It didn’t matter, the house was alive in the way it never was when his father was home. 

His father was a peculiar man. Will does not much like to think of him. He had always been a distant man, even before Will’s mother died. William’s father, Richard, was not a very affectionate man. William always thought there was snow hanging off his shoulders and frost on his pale face. His father was a cold man. If Will’s mother ever painted him he imagined she would’ve used the hollowest colors. The sort of colors that sound like wind in a dark tunnel. 

But he knows that’s not true. She did paint him once, but William didn’t recognize his father. The man in the portrait looked kind and loving. Not at all like the silent ghost of a man he was so familiar with. The one portrait she made of him showed how she had used the most musical colors possible. She had painted his dark eyes in the warmest colors of deep, rich soil and not the lifeless colors of a dead tree. His lips were the colors of summer strawberries and not that of faded red cloth. She captured the kindness that her eyes were so skilled at spotting. 

Will may not have known much about his father but he did know his mother and he did know the colors. Even through his round child-eyes, he could plainly see that she loved him. 

After Will’s mother died, his father receded even more into his head. 

Sometimes, after his mother died, William would pull out the portrait of his father and stare at it. He’d crouch into the corner of his mother’s old work space and try and hear her voice through the colors. He’d strain his ears trying to hear her give him a clue into opening his father up. She saw something in him and captured it on her canvas. She captured everything honestly. He tried to find some way to thaw out his father for him and his sister because they were both so very lonely with their mother gone. 

He never heard her. His father remained a mountain, tall and unreachable. The snow kept battering at him until he was buried beneath piles and piles of cold and blankness. 

Eventually, time moved on and while Will’s father remained an unreachable summit, Anne continued learning piano and Will picked up his mother’s paints. 

He has the paints with him now. Well, most of them at least. He kept the blue ones in particular. Even if he had squeezed them flat as paper to get the last of vermillion blue or aquamarine. 

Will patiently waited for the sun that was just beginning to break into the sky, to fully flush its way out into the coutryside’s vast green acres. Once the golden sphere peeked it’s golden crown above the horizon, did Will pick up his pinks, blues, yellows, and reds. 

He painted and had a conversation with the dawn. The light blues whispered he should acquaint them with the timid violets. The deep deep greens said they wanted to sleep some more with the turquoise and burgundy asked if they could join in too. He smiled slightly as he twirled his brush into a circle for the song of the golden sun. As he added light pink to the sky, he hummed a bit and felt the need to open his window very slightly and stick his face out to breathe in the morning air. 

The sun kept moving even if he wasn’t finished with his painting but it didn’t matter. He vividly remembered what the dawn looked like and focused his attention onto translating it onto canvas. 

Will was just starting to put the finer details into his painting when he heard the tell tale signs of the waking house. There was the creak of the floorboard as Mary got up and started getting ready for the day. He could hear her as she stepped out of her room, probably ready to prepare breakfast for her family. Not a minute later, he could hear the sounds of the kitchen and the smells of food wafting into his room. And then, like a domino effect, the smell of the food most definitely suffused into the children’s room because he could hear his nieces footsteps as they ran out of their room and towards the kitchen. He could hear the sudden flurry of voices and activity happening in that region of the house and found himself cleaning his brushes. 

He joined them for breakfast. He’s been with his sister’s family for just over a week and yet his nieces still insisted on sitting on either side of him at the breakfast table. They comment on the colors on his hands. This morning he has a rather fair amount of green and yellow streaks between his knuckles and even running up his wrists. Anna sequestered his left hand and said through a mouthful of egg, “This yellow looks like butter! Or eggs!” Mary, Will’s sister, chastised her for speaking with her mouth full. 

Martha, Anna’s twin sister, wrinkled her nose at her sister and stuttered, “I d-disagree.” Her big brown eyes, like her father’s, looked up at him, “D-don’t you think it looks like a da-daffodil, Will?”

Before he could answer, their mother cleared her throat, “Girls, let your uncle enjoy his breakfast.” She gave Anna a pointed look and Anna glumly released his hand and poked at her food. 

Will placed his hand by his scrambled eggs and pretended to look closely at it, “I dare say, these eggs _do_ bear a striking resemblance to this particular shade of yellow.”Anna grinned up at him and picked up a slice of toast with a bit more liveliness. He noticed Martha looking at him with a hint of betrayal in her eyes, so he opened his other palm and showed her a brighter shade of yellow at the base of his thumb, “And this looks a bit like your mother’s daffodils.” 

Martha giggled, “It d-does. Doesn’t it, mum?”

Will raised his palm like he was waving at Mary from across the table. 

Mary raised a brow and chuckled, “Yes, dear.” Mary nodded at Martha’s still full plate and said, “Now eat, before it gets cold.”

Breakfast passed much like it had the whole week Will had been there; however, right before Will returned to his room to continue painting, Mary told him she’d be having her piano student coming by later in the afternoon. 

Will had paused in the doorway and carefully said, “I didn’t know you taught others?” Mary had stopped playing the piano after she turned eighteen for reasons he is still unclear about. He has his suspicions it was over a young man that had suddenly moved away around the same time she had stopped playing her piano. It could’ve also been because of that one teacher who had always said she was not talented enough to be a professional pianist. 

Mary put away the last dish and shrugged, “Mrs. Blake is a good friend. I’ve been teaching her youngest son for the better part of the year. You know the girls have no interest in learning the piano right now. So, Mrs. Blake’s boy has been a way for me to refresh my own skills.”

Will smiled, “I’m happy to hear that. It’s been a while since I’ve heard you play.”

Mary returned his smile, her blue eyes twinkling. She pointed at him, “And it’s been awhile since I’ve seen any of your paintings. I do expect to see the one that turned your hands into a painting palette the other day.”

“We used that one for firewood last night.” 

Mary huffed and pretended to throw her dishrag at him, “Don’t tease.”

Will ducked into his room, “I’ll show you when it’s ready.”

***

Will just finished putting the finishing touches on his painting from earlier that morning when he heard the familiar sounds of the piano. He stretched his arms way above him, hearing some pops from his spine and then rubbed the tightness in his neck out. All the while, his ears fixed themselves on the careful tapping sounds of the piano keys. The piano is old and a little out of tune but he can still make out a melody flowing out of it. It sounds vaguely like a waltz because of its lilting melody but it's kind of hard to tell because it's going so slow. It's the sort of careful temp Mary used to take when she was just learning. 

After painting he always gets a little hungry. So he stood up, stomach grumbling in discontent. Not sure if he would disturb Mary’s lesson, Will cautiously stepped out of his room and quietly made his way to the kitchen. He startled when Martha ran by him in the hall, followed by Anna’s blonde braids flying in the air as she followed her sister out of the house yelling something about a dragon. The front door slammed and the piano lesson continued on. Will quietly chuckled and decided that perhaps he didn’t have to be so careful after all. 

The house is small, so Will walked in on the familiar sight of his sister sitting by the piano. The light from the crisp sun streamed in through the window and fell on his sister and her student. A boy with his back to Will, leaned over the piano's keys and he could hear him humming softly as he practiced the song he seemed to earnestly be trying to learn.

Mary nodded along as the boy carefully and slowly went through what sounded like a waltz. She noticed Will and smiled at him. The music stopped, the boy turned around and blue eyes fell on Will. The boy looked barely a day over fifteen with his round face and cheeks that clung to babyfat. He looked like many other boys; however, he had the bluest eyes Will had ever seen. The boy grinned a friendly and bright smile at Will and got up from the piano bench. He approached Will with a hand outstretched and said, “Hello, I’m Thomas Blake. You can call me Tom, though.” Will shook his hand. Tom’s hand was firm and his smile never left his round boyish face. “Are you Mrs. Brown’s brother? You two look alike, has anyone ever told you that? Except,” Tom leans a little closer and peers into Will’s eyes, “Your eyes are a little more gray.”

Mary turned in her seat and said, “Yes, he’s my brother. His name is William. Forgive him, he gets a little quiet after he’s finished painting.” 

William took a slight step back, feeling some warmth pool into his cheeks. Mary was partially correct about him getting quiet after painting. But the reason he found he couldn’t introduce himself was because he wasn’t used to encountering someone like Tom. Right from the get go, Will could see how much Tom’s personality filled the room with all his brightness. Will swallowed and said, “My apologies, my sister is correct. I do get a little quiet after painting.” Will cracked a small smile, “She’s also correct in that my name is William.” Tom’s eyes glittered in mirth at that. “I also happen to go by Will.”

Tom smiled broadly, “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you Will. Your sister has told me all about your paintings.”

Will looked at her past Tom’s shoulder, “Nice things I should hope.”

Mary pursued her lips and primly smoothed out her skirt, “Quite frankly, I can’t seem to remember what I said.”

“That’s awfully convenient,” Will dryly said. He heard Tom softly chuckle looking between him and Mary. He winked charmingly at Will, “I can assure you, it was all good.” Tom returned to the piano and the music resumed once more. Will lingered in the kitchen far longer than he intended to, listening to the choppy sounds of a waltz being played like a fawn just learning to walk. 

***

Tom’s piano lessons were a weekly occurrence. Every Thursday, Will could rely on the music to begin consistently at the same time as always. Usually by then, he’d be finishing up his newest painting and ready to fill his stomach with a simple sandwich or soup. He’d make his way from his room to the kitchen, passing the living room where his sister held her piano lessons. 

He’d chew on his sandwich, staring out the window at the twins playing in the garden and quietly listen to the sounds of Tom slowly improving in learning to play the waltz---the name of which was _The Blue Danube_. 

The third time Tom came for his lessons, Will sat in the kitchen and listened as Tom suddenly picked up the pace on a certain stanza and neared the tempo the waltz was supposed to be played in. There were fewer mistakes and right when he heard his sister’s voice rise in approval Will’s eyes fell on a tree not far off in the distance. The tree cut a solitary figure between the blue sky and crisp green grass. His eyes flitted towards the big white clouds that looked as big as mountains and his fingers itched to capture it all. 

Will grabbed his eisel and a fresh canvas. Wearing a hat, he settled all his things down near the tree and the perspective he wanted to paint it in. A little ways off, he could see his sister’s house and he wanted to include it in his painting. 

When Will was stirring an icy blue to the shadows of the clouds, he heard someone approach him. He mixed a deeper blue and added violet before looking to see who stood behind him. 

It was Tom. The boy held a glass of water in his hands, it twinkled in the sunlight and the sight of it alerted Will to his dry throat. Tom smiled at Will and offered it to him. Will graciously accepted it and felt the world get a little brighter and clearer with each sip he took---he hadn’t realized he was dehydrated. 

Tom tipped his head towards Will’s painting, “You really are good.” He put his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked a little back and forth on his heels. He had an easy smile on his face, it’s the sort of smile someone wears when they hear a favorite song. Or when they taste something particularly delicious. Or when they smell something aromatic like pine needles or roses and Will didn’t need to know him long to know that it was nearly always there. 

“Thank you,” Will placed the empty glass by his feet and cleared his throat. “You’re improving at the piano.”

Tom laughed, a full-belly laugh. Will didn’t think what he said was funny but he finds himself smiling at the boy anyways. “I don’t even know what I did. I blanked for that whole thing and then all of a sudden your sister was congratulating me!” Tom explained, beaming with his ocean eyes catching the sunlight, arresting Will momentarily. 

Will brought his brush back to the cloud he was working on, mainly to have something to do. He sensed, more than heard Tom come closer to look at his painting. “I think that’s normal,” he admits. “Sometimes, I lose myself while I paint. Whole hours pass without me realizing it.” 

Tom gave a crooked grin, “Sounds a bit like possession to me.”

“Or maybe instinct.” Will’s brush mindlessly moved towards the green, as if confirming his idea. He continued working and then was surprised to see Tom sit down on the grass beside him. The boy looked up at him when Will had stared at him in perplexion. Tom raised his brows, “Can I stay here for a bit?” he asked. 

Will quietly nodded and kept painting. 

***

Tom began to frequent the Brown’s house for more than just his piano lessons on Thursdays. When Tom was able to, he’d accompany Will to a new site that he wanted to paint. Tom would help carry Will’s easel and stool while Will carried his paints and a clean canvas. They’d walk to a site that Will would have scouted for earlier in the day and then they’d stay in that spot for hours talking while Will painted. 

To be honest, Tom was the one who did most of the talking. Stories rolled out of mouth as natural as a bubbly stream. Tom stretched through stories from his childhood, to stories of the town, to stories of his brother and secondhand stories from his friends. Will would listen to all of these with an open ear and nod along and ask questions when appropriate. 

Once or twice, Will offered to bring out a stool for Tom as well but Tom refused and claimed he liked the feeling of the Earth beneath him. 

Will thought that was a load of bollocks and told him as much.

Tom shrugged and flopped on his back in the summer green grass. He rested his head in his hands and blinked his blue eyes up at the sky, “I think a ghost haunts my house,” he said cryptically. 

Will rolled his eyes. Sometimes he didn’t understand the boy. But, undeniably intrigued he quirked an eyebrow, “Are you going to explain or---”

***

“Will, will you ever paint me? I think I’d make quite a fetching muse.” Tom posed ridiculously, fluttered his eyelashes and cupped his face in his hands. 

“Do you really believe you’d be able to stay still for long enough?” Will wryly said. 

“I could! Here, look at me. I’m sitting still.” Tom sat up straight and stubbornly raised his chin, keeping still for all of three seconds before he slumped down and sighed. “The boredom came faster than I anticipated.”

“You’re just as bad as Martha and Anna.” If he sounded fond, he chose to ignore it.

***

One day, later than usual, Tom came and sat beside Will under the tree as the sunset. He explained he had to help around the house and do some chores for his mom the whole day. He sighed and rested against the trunk of the tree, relaxing after a long day. 

Will put his book away as Tom began one of his many stories. Will had once asked him if he ever thought he’d run out of them but Tom fervently shook his head and swore that he could find a story in even the most boring person on Earth---and he already knew he could do that because he met Will. 

Will cuffed him over the head for that.

As they watched the sun flush it’s remaining rays of light over the slowly darkening sky, Will tucked his knees to his chest and didn’t take his eyes off the fiery orb.

Absently, Tom picked at a handful of grass, “Do you know I wish I could fly.” There were faint traces of wistfulness to his normally carefree voice. 

Will blinked and the very last traces of the sun vanished. “Why do you say that?” The sky turned blue violet and then a deep sleepy blue. He turned to Tom, barely seeing the boy in the darkness. Off in the distance he could see his sister’s house with its welcoming orange lights. 

Tom shrugged, “I don’t know. Sometimes I say things without thinking about them.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Come off it,” Tom nudged Will’s shoulder with his own and then didn’t move, “Wouldn’t you like to fly?”

“I suppose.” Will gave it some silent quiet thought. He recalled daydreams he used to have as a child where he imagined soaring above city skylines, green lands, the ocean, and even the moon. “I don’t much like heights, though.” 

“That’s too bad,” Tom said with genuine disappointment. 

Will smiled softly at that. “It’s not like it could ever happen.” 

“I guess you’re right,” The wistfulness returned to his voice.

Will fidgeted slightly feeling a little concerned. “Are you alright?” He asked.

“I am,” Tom said. 

A minute passed and then Tom quietly asked, “Are you leaving soon?”

“Sick of me already?”

“Of course not,” Will felt a spark of happiness at that. Tom continued, “It’s just that I overheard your sister say something about you leaving soon.”

Will picked at his nails and said, “It’s true. I leave in a fortnight.” He hadn’t cared to think about that too often. 

“Oh.”

“You’ll miss me?”

“In your dreams.”

***

The end of summer neared and Will dreaded the day he’d have to return to the city in search of a job. But really, he needn’t have worried over that because news of war came out of nowhere, looming over them all with its terrible giant presence. 

  
  



	2. Monochrome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I didn't expect the sort of love I got in the comments from last chapter and I was (and still am) super grateful for it!! You all were very lovely and I'm happy to contribute this little story to the fandom. 
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes. I proof-read to the best of my ability and yet some mistakes are always sure to slip by. 
> 
> TWs in end notes.

The war sapped the colors out of everything. The things that should’ve remained true and eternal like the blue sky and the grassy plains were the colors of slumber and death. 

Green had no business living in the mud and dirt with a bunch of ghosts hoping to live and waiting to die. 

The war blinded Will; the colors wouldn’t speak to him because he couldn’t see them. In the mud, it’s hard to reconcile that brown is the color of vitality when a fat brown rat scurries by with a chewed off finger in its teeth. Will would look at the sky and see the steel color of blankness slumbering disinterestedly up above. 

And then, there was Red. There was once a time when red would only appear in flowers, in a lady’s ribbon, in a feather, or in a harmless scrape of a knee. But now, red is everywhere. It’s the color of agony and it only sounds like screams. Red scares him because it makes him think of the many places he could see it in his own body: shining wetly in a gash on his arm or insidiously pooling from a bullet hole in his head. He’s never been so viscerally aware of a color. It threatens him night and day with the fear of pain and defeat. 

He can’t avoid the color red---that wicked color appears everywhere like a wicked flower that blooms only where there’s death. 

So, he’d live his life in monochrome and everyday the sun would rise and then it’d fall and he’d go through the motions as if in a long long dream. 

It’s two years until he sees blue again. 

He sees it when Thomas Blake seemingly stumbles into the war and back into Will’s life. 

***

All Will remembers is that he was walking somewhere, faces passed him by and yet he did not look at them. His eyes had gotten into the habit of sliding off each person he passed because it made it a little easier to not seek out the familiar when there was a chance that that familiar face would get blown off by a bomb. 

Will doesn’t even remember what he had been doing when Tom stumbled back into Will’s life. 

He’d been walking---yes. He’d been walking. Except, in the trenches, you don’t really walk. You shuffle here and there with your head down like you have a permanent cramp in your ribs. So, Will had been shuffling down in the trenches (in the graves) with his head down when someone grabbed his shoulder. He jumped ever so slightly and whipped around, heart racing as his eyes landed on familiar blue eyes. 

The familiarity of Tom’s face is what surprised Will the most. It wasn’t seeing the boy that was the surprise---it was the unmistakable  _ familiarity.  _ Suddenly, right in the middle of that gloomy day and shining like a beacon straight from some better place up in the clouds, a piece of home was drawing him into a tight hug with a smile as sweet as a song. 

Will was in shock and his arms hung limply at his sides. He was at a loss for all words and actions. The war had trained him to respond with a rifle and a bullet for surprises. He was not trained for surprises of the heart. 

Tom pulled away from the hug and simply grinned at Will like they were back home and Tom had escaped from his chores for the day. Tom cried Will’s name and laughed, “Will! You son of a gun, to think I found you here out of all places! Who woulda thought it, huh?”

Words lodged in his throat and Will blinked rapidly, trying to decipher if Tom was real or not. It’s awfully hard to tell because the boy looks almost exactly the same as when Will met him two years ago. Tom is bright and buoyant, it’s like someone simply changed his country clothes for a military uniform and dropped him in the trenches expecting him to plant flowers or something. Seeing him almost makes Will imagine that Tom’s presence, and his presence alone, would bring about the summer---that he’d smell fresh grass and feel a kind warm breeze any moment now that Tom arrived. But of course that’s not why he’s here, given the helmet that rests snuggly on his head and the butt of his rifle that peeks over his shoulder as if it too were greeting Will. 

“Wow, I can’t believe it. I think you even got  _ taller _ if that’s possible. And here I thought  _ I  _ gained a couple inches.” The boy chattered on and Will marveled at the fact that he was almost eighty-percent sure he wasn’t dreaming. Now that he mentioned it, Tom  _ did  _ get a little taller but not by much. Perhaps it had more to do with the newfound military rigidity to his posture that was not there before. 

Tom kept talking, drawing the attention of the tired soldiers littered on the trench floor or passing by. He told them  _ I know this guy. And he’s not just any guy. He’s a  _ war hero.  _ I’m so proud of him.  _ “Hey, where’s your medal?” Will got drawn back into the conversation when he heard that.

After two years, the first thing Will told Tom was: “I lost it.”

Tom raised his eyebrows in disbelief, “You  _ lost _ it?!”

Actually he tossed it away the first chance he got. Will may have been in shock but he wasn’t  _ daft.  _ He wasn’t about to tell Tom and everyone within hearing distance that he binned his medallion of honour. 

Tom’s face crumbled in disappointment for him, “Well, that’s too bad then. Rotten luck there, mate.”

Will shrugged.

“Still quiet as ever, I see,” Tom said with a fond smile. When Will didn’t say anything, Tom grew fondly exasperated and said, “Oh, come on man, we haven’t seen each other in so long. Don’t you have something to say? Maybe like, ‘My, Tom. You’re looking handsome as ever.’” He winked at Will. 

Will was beginning to feel a lot of muddled and things. Tom was beginning to make him uncomfortable because the vividness of his life and the war were starting to blaze all around him like fire. It’s not fair, it’s not fair that Tom is here. He shouldn’t  _ be _ here and yet he  _ is.  _ Tom can never be like another ghost that Will’s eyes slide across because Tom is bright and familiar. Familiarity is dangerous. 

Tom is dangerous. 

Will needed to get away. 

“I’m on water duty.” He gave one firm nod at Tom and said, “And, I’m Lance Corporal Shofield here. Not Will.” It was like he was speaking in a dream (maybe it’s actually a nightmare---he wouldn’t put it past his subconscious). He felt like he was watching himself from atop the trench, looking down at himself (in more ways than one) as he tacked on a pointed, “Blake.”

Blake flinched barely perceptively, hurt visible on his young face. 

_ The youth can feel so freely  _ Schofield ruefully thought to himself and avoided Blake’s eyes. 

Schofield shoved down any inner contempt at his actions and started shuffling away; however, before doing so, he turned his head and quietly said, “I am...Happy to see you, though.” 

But it’s a lie. 

He didn’t stay to see Blake’s reaction and shuffled away feeling very much like a rat. 

How can he be happy to see Tom---

How can he be happy to see Blake in a place like this? 

***

Schofield wasn’t sure what he expected. It’s not like Schofield can just go to another city and never see Blake again. For God’s sake, they’re in the  _ trenches  _ in the middle of a  _ war _ \---There aren’t exactly any places to hide away from trying situations when the most privacy one can ever get is when they’re unconscious. On top of that, Thomas Blake is Thomas Blake and Schofield can’t shake the boy off that easily. 

Blake doggedly stuck to Schofield like a persistent little weed. 

The boy would somehow find Schofield and then plop beside him seemingly with not a care in the world. He’d fill the time with ceaseless chatter, bringing that stream of stories into the trenches where everything he said bubbled around the surrounding soldiers like a pleasant flood of distraction. Upon hearing Blake, the soldiers would soon get drawn to Blake and listen attentively to what he’d say, circling around him as much as they could as if he were a warm flame. 

With his admittedly talented way with stories, Blake got somewhat popular in the trenches. A group of regulars that would crouch around Blake, circling around him as much as they could as if he were a warm flame and they were chums camping somewhere in the mountains. These attentive listeners, upon spotting Blake, would pat his back and grin broadly as the boy passed. 

Even if Schofield never spoke to them, these people even became somewhat familiar to him. If he happened to be close to where Blake and his group were huddled together, he’d catch snippets of stories the other men would sometimes toss into their little circle, as if to contribute to the flame of familiarity between them. Schofield would hear stories about ill-advised exploits, gossip from the trenches, stories about their girls from home, and yet none of them ever seemed to touch the topic of home. That would’ve been like tossing a bucket full of icy water over everyone and no one wanted to snuff the flame until it was ready to die out by itself. Nearly every night was like this, Blake and his group of pals would get together and share stories with one another---but mainly, it was Blake who would lead the story-telling, and sometimes Blake would beckon him over with an inviting grin on his face but Schofield would always politely decline. 

It was with some surprise that Schofield realized that his eyes did not slide easily off the members of Blake’s little crew and it frightened the war-weary part of him. He wanted to warn Blake to not get too familiar but he knew it wasn’t his place to say such a thing. Sometimes it’s better for people to learn such things on their own. 

But even with such a large group of friends, Blake would seek out and spend most of his time with Schofield, which was something he could not understand why. Wasn’t he scared of their familiarity as well? Wasn’t he scared to grow any attachments? It certainly didn’t seem like so, what with his handful of friends he traded stories with like trading cards. 

At first, Schofield tried to fight it. He tried to put distance between them and show Blake that Schofield is not the same man from when they first met. But, Blake would look at him with those familiar blue eyes and Schofield would forget that he’s supposed to be someone new. 

Sometimes, Schofield would catch himself being easy with Blake. Sometimes they’d be sitting on the trench floor, shoulder to shoulder and backs pressed against the walls of crumby earth. 

Sometimes they’d sit in silence and Blake wouldn’t be prattling on about some story or other. Schofield  _ does _ like Blake’s stories, he won’t ever admit it but he  _ does _ . But, Schofield also likes the quiet and it’s even better when he shares it with Blake. Staying quiet is a little bit like reaching peace (As much peace as one can get in the middle of a war). 

One time, Blake fell asleep on Schofield’s shoulder and he was duly tempted to shake the boy off or to gently scoot away and wake him up. But, he didn’t. No one was looking. It was dark and most everyone seemed to be asleep with the soft snores and snuffles that gently filled the night air. Schofield relaxed his shoulder and closed his own eyes, waking up not even an hour later to find his cheek resting atop Blake’s soft hair. Schofield fluttered his sleepy eyes back shut and slipped back into a dreamless sleep, thinking that it’s been awhile Schofield had been close to anyone that wasn’t from being shoved away or from being dragged into cover. 

When Schofield awoke, it was still dark out and the sun had not yet risen. 

A slight chill in the air maliciously delighted in touching any exposed skin---that is to say, Will’s hands and face fell victim to the bite of the chill. But, Blake was a warm weight all along his side, and it seemed like he had not yet woken up if his soft snores were anything to go by. Despite the warmth that blake provided, Schofield still shivered from the cold and thought that someone might misconstrue their proximity. He didn’t have to worry for too long because Blake suddenly jerked awake and lifted his head off Schofield’s shoulder, “Shit. I don’t think I can feel my hands.” He raised them in front of his face and his fingers trembled as he splayed them open and slowly closed them into fists. He turned to Schofield and asked, “Warm them for me?” If it were light out, Schofield is certain he would be able to see Blake’s puppy-dog eyes pointed directly at him

Unfortunately for Blake, it’s not light out. And unfortunately for Schofield, he’s still sleepy from the unexpectedly good rest he had so he asked, “Come again?” When really he should’ve ignored the boy. 

Blake brought his hands closer to Will, “Warm them? I think I may have gotten frost-bite.”

“I think you’ve gone mad,” Schofield whispered. 

“I’m just being sensible here, Scho.”

“Tell that to my shoulder that you used as a pillow all night. I don’t think I can even lift it.” And it’s true, his shoulder does feel a little off kilter. 

“You’re being dramatic.”

“If I’m being dramatic then I think your hands are far from being frost-bitten.”

“Fine, I’ll sit on my hands.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Some time passed and as the chill in the air showed no sign of letting up, the sun began to rise.  Impromptu, Blake said, “You know, I never did finish learning  _ The Blue Danube.” _

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Blake sighed. “I miss playing the piano sometimes. I was actually starting to get better before I came here. Sometimes when I’m falling asleep, I move my fingers in the way I’d play a song. And, if I’m really tired and I’m drifting away, I swear I can almost feel the keys under my fingers for a couple of seconds.” Blake had a far-away look of nostalgia in his eyes---it was an alien expression on the boy and it made him look older for a brief handful of seconds. Someone snored awfully loud beside them and the moment passed fleetingly. Blake blinked and looked at him, “I imagine you miss painting.”

Schofield looked away from the sudden wave of home-sickness that washed over him. “I do,” he admitted, seeing no reason to hide it since Blake would be able to see through him anyway. 

“When we get home, what’s the first thing you want to paint? I know that the first thing I want to do is play that damned waltz in its entirety.” 

In an attempt at humor that he’s not sure where it even came from, he sarcastically said, “Maybe I’ll paint you.”

Blake’s eyes glowed and he looked at him in excitement, “Really? Are you serious, Scho?” The sky started to shine a misty silver as the sun rose, beckoning another day of monochrome. But, for just a moment, Schofield could almost see the hues of roses and violets up in the air when he looked at Blake. Schofield shook it all away and the monochrome sapped it all away again. 

They heard commotion going on deeper in the trench as everyone started grumbling awake and preparing for the “Stand-to.”

Schofield took that opportunity to point to get up and he said with a little bit of a sigh, “And so our day has begun.” Blake scrambled to stand up asking him again if he was serious about the painting, Schofield smiled to himself and didn't answer him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of blood and gore (but not like you might think, I only mention something like that once). Descriptions of war. 
> 
> I only intended there to be two parts but I felt like uploading tonight so instead of two chapters, there's three. The next part is almost done so I hope to upload soon. I was a little afraid of disappointing you all so that's why it's taken me a bit to write this next part. I hope this was a good follow-up. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment if you'd like, I always love reading them X)


	3. Color

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if there are any mistakes. Please enjoy the final installment to this little story. :)

They have 7 days leave.

Schofield decided to stay at his father’s and Blake went straight home with the promise that he would visit Schofield before they needed to return to the front. Schofield highly doubted that Blake would actually leave his home town just to visit Schofield in London, but he gave him the address he would be staying at anyways. He didn’t want to visit his sister’s place in the country because if he did, there was no guarantee that he would be able to leave her and her family again without something vital inside him shattering to pieces. 

Instead, Schofield stayed with his father in his small house just a little outside London. He expected to get about as much of a welcome as a lukewarm bath, but he was surprised when his father drew him in for a crushing hug that made his ribs hurt. The hug only lasted a second before he stepped away, fast as a cold breeze and said that Schofield could use the houses’s amenities to his liking. This is why he decided to stay with his father--- It's a little like staying in a boarding house. Leaving it won't be so hard. 

The first thing Schofield did in his father’s house was take a much needed bath. As he slid into the bath, the hot water rushed up to meet him and he felt well and truly alone for the first time in what felt like decades. He stayed in there until the water got cold and his fingers got wrinkled. When he stepped out, water dripped into the tub and he still felt dirty. Schofield looked in the mirror and blinked at the stranger he saw there. He pulled at his cheeks, touched his ears and ran a finger down his thin nose to confirm that what he saw was really there. He left the bathroom convinced that there were specks of dirt still in his hair and in his ears. 

For the first couple of days in his father’s house he didn’t do much at all. He faffed about the house and wandered meanderingly around the suburban streets never straying too far. He did not dare go into the room where he knew his mother’s paintings were kept because the carefully constructed strength he held in every bone in his body would collapse like a house of cards. 

When Schofield slept, he slept on the ground. He remembered how his sister used to complain about how firm the beds were, but now they seem as soft and pliable as a big feather pillow. So, he slept on the ground and his dreams were either nonexistent or loud and indecipherably terrible.

Two days before he was due to return, Blake arrived at his doorstep with a clean and pressed uniform, and a grin bright enough to rival the spring sun.

When Schofield first arrived at his father’s, one of the first things he had told his father was that a friend of his may be arriving by the end of the week, Schofield’s father had been surprisingly agreeable enough, and when they were introduced, Schofield’s father simply gave Blake a firm handshake and thanked him for his service. 

In private, all Blake said about Schofield’s father was “A chatty one that,” and all he could do was shrug in response.

Blake side-eyed him with a teasing smile, “A little bit like you I might add.”

Schofield rolled his eyes and guided Blake to his room so that he could put his meager things away. While the boy poked around at Schofield’s admittedly sparse room, Schofield noticed that Blake carried an extra box than what he had been carrying when he had been heading home, but he hadn’t asked about it, assuming that it was something from his mother. Once things seemed all sorted, Blake clapped his hands and said, “So, where should we go?” 

When Schofield didn’t immediately respond, Blake slowly said, “Tell me you weren’t seriously thinking that we’d stay inside here all day.”

Schofield shook his head and scoffed,“Of course not.” 

He felt the need to defend himself for some reason. After all, he didn’t want Blake to think he was a bore or something. So he asked Blake where he wanted to go and was promptly surprised to find that Blake had a list of all the places he wanted to visit---some of them impossible to go to within one day. Schofield looked down at the list and noted Blake’s handwriting, it was the first time he had ever seen anything in his scrawling handwriting and he kind of felt like running a finger over the letters because it was all a little endearing. Schofield handed Blake his little list back and asked, “You’ve never been to London before?”

Blake sheepishly scuffed his shoe on the floor, “Is it that obvious?”

It is a little bit, but Schofield lied and said, “Not at all, we just have a lot of places to acquaint you with that’s all. Let’s go.”

The day was relatively pleasant with few clouds in the dewy blue sky and they tried their best to go to all the places Blake scrawled down on his list. 

Schofield first took him to The Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace. Blake had been most impressed by Big Ben and had made a litany of innuendos that did not manage to miss the ears of many passersby. Afterwards, they visited St. James Park (a place not on Blake’s list). 

Schofield was nearly overcome with the realization of how much he missed the color green. The sights and sounds of the park’s trees rattled a sweet soft song in the gentle breeze and he took a deep breath, letting his lungs expand with what felt dangerously close to sunshine. He was tempted to take his boots off just so he could feel the grass between his toes, but he felt it would be going too far. 

Blake asked if they could just sit and look out at the lake for awhile, and Schofield was all too inclined to oblige. 

An hour passed and then they continued on with their journey, heading towards St. Paul’s cathedral where its walls, the colors of mist, mingled with the growing silver sky. While making their way to The Tower, the ceiling of clouds opened up and unleashed a shower of rainfall. The water was thick and cold as a river of ice, and the boys were forced to beat a hasty retreat into a nearby awning until it passed. 

When they returned home, both of them were beat and cold from the episode of rain that drenched their clothes. They changed into fresh clothes and felt very light in spirit as they wolfed down a simple soup for dinner, feeling the warmth suffuse them and fill their hungry stomachs. After they finished, Blake had fetched the box that he’d arrived with and opened it to reveal rows of fresh baked cookies. He grinned a toothy grin at the shocked gasp Schofield had made at the sight of them. 

The rain did not leave the next day and they both reluctantly stayed cooped up in the house during their last day of leave. Both of them were quiet with the knowledge that they’d be heading straight back into the colorlessness of the war but neither of them seemed to want to broach the topic for too long. 

The day passed quietly and solemnly, and nightfall befell them with the soft ticking of a clock beating in their heads. 

The boys laid side-by-side on a blanket on the floor and stared up at the ceiling of Schofield’s room, lit only by a dim lamp that barely gave enough light to fill a small closet. Schofield offered Blake his bed but Blake shook his head and admitted that he couldn’t even sleep in his own bed at home---the bed that he had been dreaming of for months---he had done the same thing as Schofield and dragged his blankets to the floor. 

A heavy silence filled the room in a muted silence better suited for a funeral. The pitter-patter of rain on his window engulfed Schofield’s wandering thoughts, and sleep eluded him like a low tide. Blake suddenly broke the silence and resentfully said, “Do you realize that we could’ve gotten piss-poor drunk today were it not for the rain.”

Schofield firmly nodded in agreement,“Fuck the rain.”

With continued fervour, Blake said, “We’re just a couple of sodden sober losers ignoring a perfectly serviceable bed, in favor of your floor that smells vaguely like cabbages—no offense.” 

Schofield snorted and rolled onto his side to face Blake, “Fuck you: offense taken.”

“Sorry mate, but it’s true.”

“Get off my floor if you don’t like it then. I’ll banish you to my bed, I will. And then you’ll be crying to come back down here and I won’t let you.”

“Shut up. If you banish me to the bed I can simply roll off it.”

“Not if I kick you back up there,” Schofield demonstrated his point with a small kick.

Blake humphed and turned on his side to playfully glare at Schofield, “Seriously doubt you can do that.”

“I’ll tie you to it then.”

Blake raised his eyebrows in false-sympathy “I think you’re tragically mistaken, Scho. I’m not that kind of girl.”

Smugly, Schofield said, “Could’ve fooled me, remember that time you let my nieces out ribbons in your hair? I can remember that quite clearly.”

Blake blew out a breath in fond exasperation and said, “Oh shut up,” and then Blake kissed him. He just leaned over like it was the only natural thing to do and kissed him. It only lasted a second, but Schofield felt like all the air left the room when Blake pressed their lips together, as if the walls to his room expanded and blew open like an exploding star, sucking everything away, including the oxygen and the darkness. 

Blake pulled away slightly and searched Schofield’s eyes as if he didn’t just make Schofield’s room disappear, as if he didn’t just stop the rain. 

And as if he couldn’t help himself, Blake ran a thumb lightly on Schofield’s cheek, and that tender gesture is what made Schofield speak: “We shouldn’t do this.”

Blake’s pulled his hand away, leaving a warm trail as a reminder of where it had been. “Why not?” 

Schofield felt his still tingling mouth firm into a straight line, he didn’t miss the way Blake’s eyes dropped to it, “I’m sure you're well aware as to why.” Everyone knew what happened to men who liked men—-it certainly wasn’t pretty, and Schofield wasn’t too keen on personally experiencing what he has only heard others speak of in lowered voices filled with disgust and morbid fascination. Schofield needed to nip this in the bud—-no matter how much he wanted to confirm if Blake’s lips really were that soft.

As if Blake heard Schofield’s thoughts, he fervently said, “I don’t care about those other things. I want to know why _you_ think we shouldn’t, because I know the opinion of others doesn’t matter to you.” He quietly added, “I know about the truth of that medal.”

“How do you know about—?” Blake simply smiled sadly at him and he realized that he kind of gave himself away just then, “Oh.”

“You’re the tidiest person on the planet, it’s impossible for you to have lost something.”

Schofield quietly grumbled to himself but had to concede that Blake had a point.

Blake lightly kicked him with his foot, “Tell me.”

Schofield allowed himself a moment to be in silence, a moment to keep the words nestled in his mouth a safe place to stay. When the time came for the words to leave the nest, he still didn’t want them to leave, but he unwillingly released them into the unknown: “I don’t want to be hurt,” he whispers so quietly he might as well have not said anything at all. 

Understanding filled Blake’s eyes. Matching Schofield’s whisper, he softly said, “Well, I don’t want to either, but I think it’s better to have had this than nothing at all.” Blake’s earnest blue eyes looked darker in the dim light, like wildflowers at dusk. 

Holding his gaze, Schofield murmured, “It’s risky.”

A flicker of hope trickled into Blake’s eyes, “I know.”

“We could be imprisoned,” flashes of stone walls and confined spaces flitted through Schofield’s mind. He felt a desperate need to know that Blake really did know what he was gambling with. 

Again, Blake firmly said, “I know.” The glint of hope in his wildflower eyes slowly burning into something brighter. 

“We could be killed,” Schofield let that statement and all its weight hang in the air, almost feeling the tips of feet whipping back and forth from a noose: their possible future. 

Now, Schofield does not fear death. Perhaps when faced with his last dying breaths he will actually feel fear, but he’s been surrounded by death for so long it feels more like an old friend. In fact, he’s almost sure that he could paint that familiar face in a portrait with his eyes closed---that old rat-faced thing with fingers as cold as the underside of a shark’s belly. 

Schofield may not fear death. But, he was scared---God, he was so _afraid_ \---of Blake dying. He hated the thought of Blake and all his light getting snuffed out within a single ill-fated moment. His light should burn, burn, burn until he burned so much and lived so long that when he died of old-age, it would be exactly like a brilliant sunset submerging into the horizon, leaving all it’s colors in the sky as one last beautiful goodbye. 

It bears repeating: “I don’t want you to die.” Schofield’s throat burned with that admission, and he felt both too small and too big for the room. 

Blake gently said, “I know. Scho,” His eyes shone with unshed tears, “I don’t want you to die either, you idiot.” Blake chuckled wetly and rubbed his eyes. “I want you to know that I’m well aware of everything that could go wrong and I don’t care. Truly, I don’t.” Blake reached for Schofield’s hand and held it clasped it between his own, “All I care about is this---you,” he pressed a kiss to Schofield’s hand and gently released it as if it were a small bird. 

And that’s when Schofield realized that he loved him. He loved this bright, brave, brilliant young man whose stories seem to bubble out of him like an endless geyser, and most of all, he loved him for the way that he makes colors live where they really shouldn’t. 

Schofield shakily said, “Fine, there’s one more thing I want you to consider.”

“I’m all ears."

These three words soared out of him, free: "I love you."

Blake blinked rapidly, color rising high on his cheeks. He stammered, “Well, I um, I didn’t know _that.”_ He suddenly looked devastatingly young, his eyes wide and staring at Schofield in wonder.

“Does it bother you?” Schofield suddenly felt supremely self-conscious—-maybe Blake doesn’t feel the same.

Reeling back in surprise Blake said, “No, no, no. Not at all! I love you too. Sorry.” He sheepishly said, “You just caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting—-I didn’t think that—-Well, it doesn’t matter now does it?” An explosion of gold burst in the room as Blake beamed and said, “I love you too.”

A swirl of warmth suffused Schofield’s heart and soul in the colors of sugar and fire-crackers. Schofield coyly smiled and said, “Well, I should hope so. You just kissed my hand after all.”

Blake lifted a finger and delicately touched the corner of Schofield’s mouth, “And I kissed somewhere else too.” Blake gave a small nervous giggle and Schofield smiled at the boy, bringing his own hand up to rest on Blake’s cheek. 

“Perhaps I need you to refresh my memory.”

They both leaned in at the same time, meeting in the middle.

The air didn’t rush out of the room again. Rather, it was like the air flowed back in as Blake gave a little sigh as they kissed. It was like the rain unfroze and started pitter-pattering against Schofield's window as Blake ran a hand through Schofield’s hair. It was as if the walls rebuilt themselves as they explored their mouths, pausing here and there to smile into their kiss. Blake’s hands ran down Schofield’s back and Schofield wondered if he could see all the colors flooding into the room like a wave of flowers. 

Blake pulled away for a moment and Schofield followed, he sighed when it was clear that Blake was stopping for some reason and settled for trailing a series of kisses on Blake’s soft jaw. Blake chuckled and said, “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

“Then why did you stop?” Schofield playfully nipped Blake’s ear. 

He looked at Schofield with shining eyes filled with happiness and a little bit of sadness, “I don’t know, I just felt like saying it.” 

Schofield leaned back a bit more to look Blake more fully in the face and he lightly ran his thumb under Blake’s eye, where the skin is softest. _Dearest,_ he thought to himself. But instead, he simply said, “Tom.”

Blake smiled at Schofield, a sunrise in his voice as he said, “Will.” 

And Schofield couldn’t help himself, he pulled the boy closer and kissed him. 

_Dearest. Dearest. Dearest._

  
  


***

Epilogue 

Will sat in front of a blank canvas let his eyes flow around the young man. He searched for the colors he knew were there and slowly cracked them one by one, listening to what they had to say.

The brown of Tom’s hair caught the morning light that slowly began to trickle into the room, warming the strands amber. The amber whispered to him, reminding him of the times he ran his fingers through that soft hair. The times he washed that hair when Tom was lost and off-kilter from losing his arm. He remembered the flower crown of daisies his nieces made for Tom, and how Tom had raised his hand to delicately touch the flowers that encircled his head like an embrace. 

His face had lost much of its baby fat, a testimony to the time that has passed since the war. They are both a little older, but the wounds of the war are still fresh. Will doesn't know if there will ever be a time when they aren't. He supposes they are lucky they even made it out of it alive in the first place. 

After that fateful night in Will’s old room, they had returned to the front with a secret: while the war stole their days away, the two of them would steal treasures between each other. They would steal touches, glances, and sometimes the rarest and most precious of them all: kisses. 

Will mixed the colors red with white, a sweet pink color rises until it sounds exactly like Tom’s laughter. Will guides the pink to the canvas, Tom’s face slowly being constructed.

They had been thieves and masters of deception.

But those skills weren’t enough for War, the greatest robber of them all. War’s dear friend Death tried on multiple occasions to steal Will or Tom away but even if it’s hyena-like teeth never dragged one of them away, it did not leave them unscathed. For a price that neither of them knew they were haggling for, they survived with their lives in exchange for Tom’s right arm. 

Will mixed the colors for the cream of Tom’s shirt. He worked on the shadows and the light on his torso, idly remembering how they had fixed all of Tom’s shirts to accommodate for his lost arm. 

Honestly, it could have been worse. The infection could’ve set in and killed Tom entirely, but by some miracle, he survived.   
  


Will painted Tom’s remaining hand, thinking of the boy’s resilience and incessant fortitude. Tom insisted on relearning how to do things with his remaining hand. And Will and Tom’s family had helped him through it every step of the way. 

Lastly, Will squeezed the blue onto his palette in preparation for Tom’s eyes. He meditatively swirled the different hues of blue until he got the correct shade. Will leaned in towards the canvas, his neck and shoulders aching and he carefully, ever so carefully added those pools of sky on Tom’s face. 

Will leaned back and fixed his eyes on Tom once more, remembering the first time they had visited the ocean together. He remembered how they had kicked water up at each other and tumbled into the sand to stare up at the sky that seemed to stretch onwards and upwards for forever. He remembered how _free_ he had felt, as if a wind could pick him up and set him flying to the stars.

And he remembered how there had been a time where he had truly believed that such pure happiness would never shine on him again.

But of course, it did. Happiness lit his heart with summer sunshine because he had Tom.

Will suddenly stood up from his stool and went to draw Tom into a tight hug.   
  
Tom stood up from the bench and wrapped his arm around Will, running small circles over his back, “Well, what’s this for? Not that I mind, that is—-Are you finished with your painting already?” 

Will shook his head and buried his face in Tom’s neck.   
  
“Are you alright, dear?” Some worry started creeping into Tom’s voice. “Did you accidentally give me a mustache? If you did, can I see? I’ve always been curious to see if I could pull one off.”

Will sorted through all his feelings, and found that they all lead to one thought, like a river current rushing towards one destination: “I’m just happy.”

Tom relaxed and sighed a happy sigh, “As am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a pleasure writing this for this fandom, I hope it was a good ending and that you enjoyed reading. Thank you so much to all the people who have left comments, you are 100% the reason I wrote more for what was supposed to only be a one-shot. And of course, thank you to all those who have read this. ILY all!!


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